


Dear God, Can You Hear Me? It's Me Sam Winchester

by castielslovesong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x23, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Crying, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everything Hurts, First Blade, Grace - Freeform, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Love, M/M, Mark of Cain, Protect, Spoilers, Suicide Attempt, This is gunna hurt, just mentioned, not graphic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1673390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielslovesong/pseuds/castielslovesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is trying to cope. Really, he is. </p><p>But his brother's a demon, Cas' grace is burning him out and no one is talking. </p><p>Can this be fixed? Or will God take away more of his family?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear God, Can You Hear Me? It's Me Sam Winchester

**Author's Note:**

> Wow ok, so I'm emotionally compensating for some of the hurt I'm holding in from the finale. This is what this is. My pain manifesting as a story. Dear Chuck help us all.
> 
> Yes I should be updating my other fics... Shhhhhh
> 
> I hope you enjoy. Or you know don't this is sad, don't enjoy it, come cry about the finale with me. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are so appreciated, I can't even explain it. 
> 
> Also, I'd like to know what you think... Can't be a better writer without y'all lovely people reading my stuff can I?
> 
> Much love, and sorry in advance -xo

He sits at the table. The table too long for the short number of people they have left. Closing his eyes, he chucks back the next glass of hard liquor. He’s been sat there a while now. He’s lost count how many he’s drank.

_“All your friends are dead!”_

It wasn’t like it was a lie. Although, he still winces at the casual manner it came from his mouth. A dull ache that follows that thought; those people were more than just friends. Indeed, so it seems, life has been Hell bent on taking everything that gets within a 2 metre radius of a Winchester.

It rips open old wounds. But in reality, it’s just a catalyst. Another crack in a wall that was stuck together with duck tape and safety pins.

_“What happened to you being ok with this?”_

_“I lied.”_

Of course he had lied. He’s a Winchester. Lying and stubbornness are the genes that make up every molecule of their beings. And it hurts. It hurts to know that Dean had been ok with dying. That he didn’t want... This.

Refilling the glass is not nearly as satisfying as every time he’s done it before. Absently, he runs his hand up and down the neck of the bottle. It is strangely familiar; for a split second, he feels like Dean must have, and Dad, each time they pick up a new bottle. To a certain extent he gets some strange contentment in that, if nothing else, Winchester’s can bond over a bottle of liquor.

Tears have long since dried. It wasn’t acceptance, this limbo situation he’s found himself in. No, it’s more like extended grievance. How many more of his family are going to die?

The answer is simple:

None.

There is no one left now. Only him.

The pressure behind his eyes is nearly crushing, having not slept, but he can’t bring himself to lie down in his bed, after everything he has seen. As always, the world turns on. He’s still sat in his chair, swirling the brown substance in the cold frame of glass, while the angels redraw their wings, the souls, trapped in the essence of death and Heaven, slowly beginning to trickle through, Crowley, the smug asshole, raising a little Hell.

He tries to forget the look on Cas’ face. Death is absolute, or not, and Dean was ready for it.

_“No matter the consequences.”_

For as long as he has existed, for as long as the world has been in danger, Dean has been ready to sacrifice himself. _Not me_ , Sam thinks self-loathing dripping through his veins, trying not to imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t of been there.

No, the look on Cas’ face, his eyes, so bright, turned dark. The crease of his brow, more furrowed, foreign tracks leading hopelessly from sullener eyes, only to find, that no, Dean was not dead, yet yes, he was more dead than he ever has been. Though Cas took it well, in reflection, better than Sam had.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

If he thinks hard enough, he can remember what colour they used to be. It’s so hard now, the black seeping into his skin, the taint on his brother, screaming at him that this is a whole new level of wrong. But he won’t give up on Dean. He is still his brother, nothing, not the mark, not the demon, not the words that spill from his mouth can change it. Cas knows it too; Sam contemplates what it really must be like, for an angel, (he already knows the brotherly perspective), to give up everything continually for one man, only to have it once again ripped from you. It makes his chest constrict and tighten. It makes his heart beat to close to his ribs and his throat dry and scratchy.

They are silent. So much silence that it is practically choking him, choking them. It suffocates them and coddles them into seething looks and ashamed glances when they think the other isn’t looking. Worse still, Dean refuses to look at anyone anymore. He can’t. Hating the shade of his own eyes, hating that he didn’t just _die,_ it’s a feeling that isn’t going away.  

Sam’s been there. He knows.

Weeks have passed them by. Grateful that Dean has made no attempt to leave, that Cas has made every attempt to heal him. To fix him. The Righteous Man, Dean had scoffed. They had fought. Sam had drunk. The cycle hasn’t ended yet.

What he hadn’t expected was to find Dean, first blade 3 inches into his chest, sobbing. Really crying in a way that Sam hadn’t seen since those stormy nights when Dean would be a child. He would cry hard for a mother Sam didn’t know, for warm arms and smiles that Sam had never seen. Cas had returned in a flutter of wings, simply healing him and taking him into his arms.

They haven’t talked about that either. Communication, not something that they would be commended for, has been a null point. The second Cas’ grace, Dean’s demonization, Sam’s drinking is brought up, the light switches off and the moths disappear. It is hard to pinpoint what he misses most about his brothers...

Shaking his head, he dispels those thoughts.

Maybe Sam should try harder, but he’s looking; searching for a way out. It’s not as simple as a demon cure. Nothing like this has ever happened, not since Cain and Abel.

But destiny was never something they complied to. Even Pam, poor, blinded Pam, or Missouri, couldn't have seen this on the cards. No. This was worse than hellspawn. Dean had said that Hell is simple. Of course it is. As it is in Heaven. They take what they want and Winchesters pay the price of trying to fix it.

He’d tried contacting Cain. Turns out he’s not within cell range.

Cas comes out of Dean’s room. He often looks like he went ten rounds with Lucifer (a joke he can actually appreciate) his face peeling like ash. They don’t talk. It’s hard to find the words to say. Sam notices, as he does so more often in a heavy way that has mist clouding his vision, that Cas has his old trench coat back. The one Dean had kept, for a year, by his side always. Praying to the only being in existence that he had shown any kind of faith in. A faith they placed in each other, that grew, outgrew and shattered the fabrics of time and fate.

‘My brother’s a demon and the other’s grace is going to explode’. God. It sounds like the start of a bad porno.

The angel and the demon. And that brings him to Gabriel. The angel who, if anyone can, could trick a monster and get the hell outta Dodge before things went to shit. A tiny part of him whispers in his ear, Gabriel died. He’s gone. Lucifer turned him into mince meat. He quashes it down, if God, the fucking asshole, is out there and he saved Cas, surely he would save Gabe too. He might have been flawed, but man if Sam couldn’t relate to wanting to get out of the Family Business.

Gabe doesn’t answer.

Cas gets worse.

Dean gets more withdrawn.

He sees it now, when Dean comes out for more alcohol, not that it affects his system, it’s a blanket. A comfort. A consistency.

There is something more to the way Dean and Cas act since it happened. The fighting has stopped. Large parts of the bunker, dented, littered with debris and blood that no longer flows through either of their hearts. It’s there, as proof of the meeting of Heaven and Hell somewhere in the middle. Yes, somewhere in the middle of this, they have accepted things. Small touches, those longing looks, it means something, for once. Though, as their life would so have it, it comes all too late.

How many more of his family are going to die?

Cas looks like Nick. Dean looks like Hell. Were Dean himself - where did his green eyes go, yes green, they were before - he would have laughed at the comparison. He looks like Hell? He is Hell. Damnation has followed him _from_ Hell. And here it is. Staking its claim as though it has the right to be there, too late, to mark and to assert its dominance on a man whose soul had already been cradled, loved, by the hands of another. By Cas.

The fallen angel who seems to always be falling. When will he stop falling?

Dear God, you have to catch him. Sam prays. He knows no one can hear him. You saved them before, why not again? Who was I to be given these two heroes, when they continue to sacrifice themselves, if not for me, for each other? I was given friendship, love, care, when I deserved no more than the devil who tried to wear me. These are your sons, these are the beings forged from fire and dirt, who have been to places I have read only in books, then visited myself, but why must they pay the price?

The fundamental question: why?

New tears spring from an empty well, tears of desperation.

A viral scream ricochets through the bunkers walls. The empty glass, from my hand, shatters on the cold concrete floor beneath my pounding feet. In a haze, I’m standing at his door. The door that is always closed, that shuts out the self hatred, the loathing, the resignation to death. To acceptance, that death would be sweet; such a gift in comparison to becoming something he never wanted to be.

Open, just ajar, enough for him to brace himself to push it in fully. Stepping inside, out of touch of the situation, he cannot bring himself to do more than drop heavily to his knees.

Dear God, how many times must you take away my family?

Two bodies, held together by a profound bond scholars and prophets couldn’t begin to discern how deep, how important it was and write it down on paper or rock. Dean’s strong arms, stronger really than Cas was then, are curled so protectively, so lovingly around Cas’ torso from behind. Upon closer inspection, he is holding Cas to him. Never wanting to let go, for if he does, there will be no God there to catch him.

Dean Winchester was there to catch him this time.

The echoes of burnt out wings, bones and tendons, singed as charcoal patterns and intricacies across his flesh. Tattooed there permanently, remarked, remade, reclaimed. The claim that was never lost. A glint too, that catches the light that streams from the open doorway. It cannot be. The amulet, the one that was destined for a landfill sight. There again, home and safe against a no longer beating chest.

Cas had been trying to pull away. He would not hurt Dean Winchester. The righteous man, his family, his lover. He gave everything, always, Sam sobs, for one man. His heart was too big, his family too small. The strength of a fallen angel is no match for the heart of his hunter. Head lolled into Dean’s neck, Cas’ body looked supple, gentle, as though they were resting. It was peaceful, if not for the howling shriek that had been torn from their bodies.

The demon and the angel together, at last, in their final moments; Sam bared witness to his own heart splitting in two - or was it his soul? - twisting and jutting in a way that felt like his lungs could no longer function.

Neither could live without the other, yet neither could live with what they had become.

Burnt out, wings etched into his brother. Sam did not move from the floor.

Hollow craters stared back from where once was green.

 

Oh where did those green eyes go?


End file.
